Mornin' Sweetie
by franklyherondale
Summary: One shot. All humans AU. Feyre, Rhys, and the power struggle over bedsheets. Feyrhys fluff!


**A Court of Thorns and Roses belong to Sarah J Mass, but the plot is mine.**

* * *

Feyre blinked against the lights streaming in through the haphazardly closed curtains. She rolled back onto her stomach, pulling the blankets back up over her head.

Then she poked her head out again, groggy eyed, and groaned.

It really was morning.

She tugged the blankets away from Rhys to tuck around herself, causing Rhys to wake up with a start and try to pull them back.

The two pulled at the blankets for five minutes, neither will to give them up, until Feyre rolled off the side of the bed, into a mound of pillows, clutching the sheets to her body with an evil laugh.

Rhys groaned in defeat.

Then he rolled onto of her.

"Get off me," Feyre huffed, "I can't breathe!"

Rhys stared down at her amusedly. "Only if you give me the blanket," he said.

"No," she refused stubbornly, crossing her arms. "I'm cold."

Rhys raised an eyebrow. "It would help to put on more clothes," he teased. "Though that's not my first solution."

"You're one to talk," snorted Feyre. "At least I'm wearing a shirt."

"And at least I'm wearing pants," Rhys countered.

Feyre made a face. Rhys made one back. Finally, Rhys backed off, pushing himself off Feyre with a groan.

Feyre, satisfied with her win, loosened her grip on the blanket.

Her husband scoop her off the floor, letting the blanket fall.

Feyre shrieked. "IT'S COLD!" she yelled, slapping Rhys on the chest. His face broke into a small smile, and a moment later he was tickling her.

"OFF," she commanded, though it wasn't very convincing with the fits of giggles she was breaking out into.

"I think I'll stay here," Rhys said smugly. Feyre pinched his shoulder. Rhys set her down on the ground, placing his hand over his heart in mock horror. "How could you, Feyre?"

She reached up to muss his hair. "Because you love me," she teased. Rhys caught her hand and dipped her into a low swing.

"That I do," he whispered dashingly, leaning in for a kiss, until -

"Not with _that_ morning breath," Feyre said pointedly. "I'm gonna take a shower," she said, easing out of his arms.

Rhys pouted. "Without me?" he asked, leaning back onto their closet door.

"Yes," answered Feyre with a pointed expression. "We get nothing done when that happens."

"On the contrary, I think we get a lot done," Rhys said, wiggling his eyebrows.

"No."

"Pleeeeeeease?"

"Nope."

"Next time."

"Hmm."

* * *

Feyre stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing her hair with her towel in a - failing - attempt to dry it. She wore a loose jacket over a yellow top and denim shorts that Mor had gotten her a couple months ago. She admired the silver ring on her finger for a moment. Yes, she had seen it every day for the past five years, but it never got old.

She snorted when she saw Rhys.

Once again he was sprawled across the mattress, except this time he had a pillow over his head and the blanket tucked in around his whole body.

How he managed to do that would never cease to amaze her.

Feyre would have been happy with looking at him all day, but she had a job. And so did he.

"Noooooo," moaned Rhys halfheartedly as she pulled the blanket off and dragged him off the bed with his arm. She looked down at him from where he lay on the floor.

"It's Wednesday and you have a job," she said, toeing his abdomen. Rhys giggled.

"Stop that!" he exclaimed.

"If you get up," Feyre said, starting now on his more sensitive stomach. Rhys ran for the bathroom.

Feyre huffed a laugh as she picked up her hairbrush strewn on the ground before heading to the kitchen.

Breakfast didn't make itself, people.

* * *

When Rhys emerged from the bathroom, this time wearing a shirt, Feyre was already done making breakfast. The coffee maker spluttered as it dripped the last drops of its elixir into a mug when he walked in. She was sitting in front of the oven, a determined expression on her face as she sipped from a mug of her own.

Rhys opened the fridge to search for the Lactaid before pouring it and a generous amount of sugar into the black liquid. He plopped down next to Feyre before asking the real question: "What's for food?"

Feyre took a long sip of tea before answering. "Pizza bagels," she said. "Don't worry, the cheese is lactose free."

Rhys kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks, love," he said in response to the lactose comment. Somehow he had developed a lactose intolerance at 27 years of life, which had bugged him relentlessly until Feyre had practically shoved lactaid pills down his throat.

He was still getting used to it. It didn't stop him from eating ice cream, though.

Nothing could stop him from eating ice cream.

Not even the devil himself.

Feyre's phone started buzzing, sending her straight to the oven. She set down her coffee on the counter and opened the oven a crack to judge for herself if it was done. Once it passed her inspection, Feyre grabbed silicon squares to take the baking sheet out of the oven. She quickly set it onto the cold stovetop situated above the oven. Feyre gestured to the four bagel halves steaming behind her.

"Go for it," she said. Rhys jumped at the opportunity, slobering like a dog.

He carefully placed the cheesiest piece on his plate.

Feyre started to talk. "It's h-"

Rhys bit into the pizza bagel, yelling as it burned the roof of his mouth.

Feyre looked at him despondently. "I was saying that it's hot," she sighed, walking over to kiss his cheek. "Sometimes it would help if you listened."

Rhys poked her in the side. Feyre slapped his hand. She walked out to the dining table, grabbing a set of keys, her backpack, and a handful of chocolates from a bowl.

She looked at the time once again. "You should probably get ready for work,' she said to Rhys, words muffled with chocolate. Rhys had recently taken over a business - previously owned by his uncle, who had retired - that helped fund and advertise startups.

The same Rhys who ran a company was somehow also the one who managed to drop a pizza bagel on the ground in his rush to put on professional clothes.

"Good luck, babe," she called, laughing. Because even though he was late, it wouldn't matter. Why? Amren, his vice president, had the whole thing under control - and she was kinda looking for the day when she got free reign.

Damn, it was nice to be married.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Hey guys, whaddoya think?**

 **So I was going through my folder of ACOTAR WIPs (which I have a lot of) and I wanted to post something, so I finished up a little bit of Feyrhys fluff. Ah, those two warm my heart.**

 **What are your guys' favorite ships?**

 **Random Fact: I have a love/hate relationship with skirts. It's mostly hate.**

 ***hugs* ~franklyherondale**


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